


Bedrest

by Udunie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Exhaustion, Fainting, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Moving Tattoo(s), Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 10:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5124827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Udunie/pseuds/Udunie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Next,” Stiles shouted, even though Boyd would have heard him even if he whispered. Okay, he might have liked feeling like an army doctor.</p><p>“You okay?” Boyd asked cautiously, still standing in the door.</p><p>Stiles blinked. What? Why wouldn’t he be? Well, maybe he was a bit parched…</p><p>“Sure thing, wolfanator, all I need is a glass of…”</p><p>As soon as he stood the whole room tipped around him. He was out before he could hit the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedrest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twisted_Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/gifts).



> Thank you to Emma, my lovely, amazing beta!

The fucking… witch-ghost things were really fucking annoying. And exhausting. It wasn’t enough that they seemed to be immune to physical harm, they also were deadly for werewolves.

Seriously they would have eliminated the pack by now if not for Stiles and Deaton working their asses off.

“Stay still,” Stiles moaned as Erica fidgeted in front of him. If he fucked up the runes, the protection spell could blow up in his face - along with Erica.

“Shut up, Stilinski. It tickles,” she growled. And come on, Stiles might have found that cute the first time, but this was the… god, he couldn’t even remember how many times he painted the runes on her back in the last week.

“Don’t care,” he murmured as he started to work. Boyd was already waiting in the door for his turn.

He worked as quickly as he could, which was unfortunately not quick enough - not when his eyes were already crossing from doing this for ten hours straight. The runes were unfortunately complicated, but they were good at bouncing back the hexes those things were shooting left-and-right.

As soon as the drawing was finished and the special ink dried Stiles laid his palm over it, concentrating to fill it with power. It was becoming hard to do it, but he wasn’t really in a position to take a rest.

He could feel Erica’s skin heat up under his hand. She hissed, and then hissed again, when the three smaller sigils appeared on her sternum. Those were something Stiles added himself to the spell. Thanks to werewolves being notoriously bad with magic, they weren’t able to tell when the protection spells were wearing off, so Stiles had to improvise a hit-counter for them. When they felt the last sigil on their chest burn out, they had to retreat for new spells.

It worked wonderfully, even though it kind of required a shit ton of extra effort.

“Done,” he said, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. Either it was getting hot in here, or… No. It was getting hot in here. Must have been all the werewolves and their body heat.

“Cool,” Erica said, getting into her jumper and she was already out the door.

“Next,” Stiles shouted, even though Boyd would have heard him even if he whispered. Okay, he might have liked feeling like an army doctor.

“You okay?” Boyd asked cautiously, still standing in the door.

Stiles blinked. What? Why wouldn’t he be? Well, maybe he was a bit parched…

“Sure thing, wolfanator, all I need is a glass of…”

As soon as he stood the whole room tipped around him. He was out before he could hit the floor.

 

***

 

Stiles woke up slowly, for a second not understanding where he even was… It took him a bit to register the soft mattress under his body and the warm, cozy sheets around him.

Fuck.

He sat up, feeling a bit dizzy from the sudden movement. Shit, he didn’t have time to laze around when those things were out there possibly hexing his friends into oblivion.

“Try to get out of that bed and you will be sorry for the rest of your life,” came a voice from outside.

Peter? What the hell? Peter was… he was away to get that that… that thing that would help extinguish the ghost-witches, wasn’t he?

He was just about to get up when the werewolf appeared in the door, looking utterly unimpressed.

“I’m serious, Stiles. If your feet touches the floor, I will tie you to the bed… Or no, wait, I don’t want to encourage you, so I guess I will just have to knock you out.”

He hesitated for a moment, but then pulled his legs back.

“What’s going on?”

“You’ve fainted, that’s what’s going on, baby,” Peter said, arms crossed in the doorway, like he was afraid Stiles will make a break for it.

Stiles frowned, he kind of remembered, but still.

“Yeah, well. Shit happens, but I have to…” before he could stand Peter was there, pushing him flat on his back none too gently.

“Stay,” he growled, and wow. From this close he seemed kind of pissed.

“What? I have to-”

“Absolutely not. It’s all taken care of. Amazing what can happen in seventeen hours, isn’t it?”

Wait, what?

“Seventeen hours?!”

Peter sat down beside him, keeping his hand pressed to the middle of his chest. His face smoothed out a bit as he looked at Stiles.

“Yes, you’ve been out for seventeen hours. I arrived about two hours into your little coma shtick, and let me tell you, it wasn’t what I wanted to see first thing in our lovely Beacon Hills. I mean, you on your back? Sure. You dead to the world with exhaustion? Not so much.”

Oops.

“So… so it’s over?” he asked, barely able to believe it. The last week had been hell, and he was just so tired of it after only a few days that it seemed like it all dragged on for months.

“Yes. They are back in hell, or wherever they’ve came from,” Peter assured him.

“Oh, okay,” Stiles said. His eyes felt so heavy. Maybe he could take a short little nap. Nothing much, just a li…

 

***

 

The next time he woke up, he was as rested as he could be. Or at least that’s how it felt, but apparently Peter didn’t agree.

“What? Come on, dude, I want to check on the others!”

Peter raised an eyebrow and handed him his phone.

“You are on bedrest for the foreseeable future,” he declared, making Stiles frown.

“You’re not my doctor!”

“Yes, thank god for that, I would have already gone gray,” Peter said, rolling his eyes, the fucker.

“No, seriously, you can’t do this,” Stiles told him, feeling more stubborn with every second.

“Sure I can,” Peter bit back, eyes flashing blue for a second.

“Oh, tone down the bullshit,” Stiles said, not even trying to hide his annoyance. The posturing thing was hot, but not right now.

“Really? Have you seen that pest of yours?” Peter asked, motioning for his chest.

Stiles looked down on himself. Actually, he hadn’t. He barely had time to grab a shower since this whole thing started, so he hadn’t really had time to inspect Gizmo.

He pulled his shirt up - now that he thought about it, it wasn’t what the one he was wearing when he fainted - Peter must have changed it.

Gizmo was perched on his hipbone, looking… like shit, to be honest. Usually the tattooed starling was glossy black with metallic, blueish-green highlights in his plumage, but now he was pretty gray and worn looking, like he flew through a tornado. Stiles felt his chest tighten. Gizmo was supposed to represent his magic, but he was more like a pet, really.

The bird was sleeping, the feathers on his chest fluffed up like he was cold.

“Damn,” Stiles said, quietly, even though he couldn’t exactly wake him up with noise.

“Damn right,” Peter said. “I’m getting you some food. You’ve lost a few pounds since I’ve left, and you will not leave that bed until you get it all back.”

 

***

 

It took about a day for Stiles to get absolutely mad with boredom. Peter was on the phone a lot. Derek was the alpha, but since his relationship with his uncle evened out a little, he picked up the habit of asking for advice. A lot. Not like it didn’t do good for the pack at large, but usually Derek had awful timing, resulting in some awkward phone calls where Stiles had to stay quiet in situations where it was… incredibly hard.

There was a lot of cleanup after the ghost-witches - understandably - and since Peter refused to leave Stiles alone for even a second, he had to be on constant phone duty.

It also meant that Stiles was boooored. He was never the calm, relaxed kind, and right now he was practically itching to get out. Out of the bed, of the apartment, of his own skin, possibly.

Gizmo was still sleeping. Stiles couldn’t remember him ever sleeping so much - he usually rested when Stiles did, so it was kind of worrying - but he tried not to read anything into it.

Okay, enough was enough. He had to get out, breathe some fresh air, maybe run around the town like a crazy person…

He got dressed as quietly as he could - Peter was in his study, but he didn’t doubt that the werewolf still kept an ear out. He pocketed his phone, planning to write Scott a text to pick him up as soon as he was out of the building, and then sneaked to the hallway.

He didn’t even get close to the door.

One second he was sliding his jacket on as silently as he could, the next, he was thrown over Peter’s shoulder and carried back to the bed.

“Put me down, you creep,” he growled, not like it had any effect.

Peter acted like he didn’t even hear him and as soon as they were back in the bedroom, he tore Stiles’ clothes off and tossed him on the covers.

He looked at the shredded remains of his jeans with something between unease and arousal.

“Really, honey, you could have asked if you wanted to get me out of them so much…” he said, trying to joke away the fact that the man looked pretty much murderous.

“You… stay right there,” Peter said, getting undressed himself. It was a bit mangled with his fangs peeking out in an unusual display of losing control. Stiles loved it when he got like that.

“Or what?” he asked, knowing very well that he was playing with fire, but Peter hadn’t even touched him since he came back, and his brain was not the only thing that itched with boredom.

He tried to sit up, but Peter snarled and then practically pounced on Stiles.

When they kissed, their teeth clanged together, like a collision, but much, much more pleasureable.

Stiles moaned, putting his hands around Peter’s shoulders, but the werewolf was having none of it.

“Keep them on the headboard,” he ordered, eyes flashing supernaturally bright, and really, Stiles had a hard time resisting that. He did as he was told - for once - and reached up, arching his neck for Peter to bite at.

As angry as he was, the man did restrain from actually hurting him, but it was a close call. Not like Stiles didn’t enjoy the kind of pain Peter handed out in bed, but it warmed something in his chest that his lover was so worried about him.

“You will not move,” Peter told him between toothy nibbles as he picked up a pillow without looking and stuffed it under Stiles’ ass. “You will stay exactly like this and not move a muscle.”

Stiles whined at a particularly hard bite, toes curling into the sheets.

“If I have to fuck you into sleep, I’m willing to make the sacrifice,” the werewolf said as he straightened out between Stiles legs. Stiles wished he could flipped him off - but he was told to keep his hands were they were, and he was a good boy. On occasion.

Peter fished out a tube of lube from god knows where and coated his fingers in it, slowly and meticulously - all the while looking into Stiles’ eyes. Fucking asshole.

“Come on, come ooon! Get on with it,” he pleaded, but it was no use. Peter took his time warming the lube, but as soon as he judged it to be right, he forced two fingers into Stiles right away.

His back bowed as he cried out from the stretch of it, and Peter immediately stopped.

“No moving, baby. You are supposed to be resting,” he smirked.

Stiles stifled a curse - or two - under his breath and tried to hold as still as humanly possible.

“Just like that, good boy,” the man praised, and then his fingers started to slowly move again, pumping and scissoring into him. It was amazing, it was just what he needed, what he always needed.

“Hm… Tight. Are you sure you want this?” Peter teased as he pushed deeper, rubbing against Stiles’ prostate and making his eyes cross for a second.

“Fuck… Fuck you... “

Peter hummed under his breath and then pulled out. Stiles whined in something between loss and panic, but the man was already shifting closer, lining up.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby. I’m going to give it to you real nice,” he said quietly and then pushed in, slow and steady, until he bottomed out.

Stiles had a hard time breathing for a few seconds, the stretch taking up all the space inside him, but then he let his body relax. He didn’t even notice how tense and stressed he still was until that moment - it felt incredible to finally just let go, to let Peter do what he wanted.

What Peter wanted was to fuck him senseless, apparently.

He didn’t stay still for long, and when he started to move, it was fast and rough - just the way they both liked it.

Stiles really tried not to move, but it was hard. All he wanted to do was meet Peter’s thrusts, to angle his hips a little, just a bit, just to make sure Peter’s cock hit him right where it had to… But as soon as he even just flexed his muscles, the werewolf halted.

It was driving him crazy.

Peter didn’t care, he waited him out every time, until Stiles was barely more than a mewling, desperate - but completely still - mess.

His cock hurt. Nobody even touched it, but he felt like he was already oversensitive and just a breath away from coming his brains out. Peter’s stomach brushed against the head of it from time to time, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t what he needed.

“Almost there, baby. Just a bit more,” Peter told him, increasing his pace even more, until he was hammering into Stiles’ hole with full force.

“Fuck… I need… Peter. I.”

“Hush, love. I'll make it good,” the man promised, and hitched Stiles’ ass higher. It was only an inch or two, but it let the werewolf slid in just that bit deeper, to hit him at just the right angle…

And Stiles was already coming.

His back arched, hands clenching around the headboard, but Peter didn’t tell him to stop; he was too busy coming too, cock throbbing deep in Stiles.

 

***

 

Stiles might have actually blacked out for a bit, because the next time he woke up, he was on his side with Peter curled around him from behind like a possessive, growly monkey.

He couldn’t help smiling at the thought. His body was sore all over, but it was a good kind of sore, the kind that made him sleepy and satisfied, and well. He guessed that was just what Peter had in mind.

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> Comments are love!


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